


Stitch by Stitch

by pixie_rings



Series: The Pixie_Rings DC Universe [2]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics), Titans (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Emotional Baggage, Hand Jobs, Healing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Build, Stabbing, jason is en emotionally constipated idiot, lian is adorable, pre52!Roy, roy is a fuckboy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixie_rings/pseuds/pixie_rings
Summary: Jason is injured and finds a safe harbour in Roy Harper. An old teenage crush comes bubbling to the surface, even through Jason's innumerable personal demons.There is also the complication of Roy's daughter Lian.
Relationships: Roy Harper/Jason Todd
Series: The Pixie_Rings DC Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125227
Comments: 34
Kudos: 448





	Stitch by Stitch

**Author's Note:**

> I'VE FINALLY FINISHED THIS THING OH MY GOD
> 
> I started this last _December_. Took a while, but we made it! Basically my whole idea for this fic was trying to reconcile pre52!Roy (and to some extent pre52!Jason as well) with the concept of JayRoy (since n52!Roy is so fucking terrible), and I have Red Arrow Harper on Twitter to thank for that idea in the first place. They're the biggest Roy fan I know and they helped me fall in love with his character in the first place with a killer reading list. While they don't ship JayRoy at all and therefore wouldn't be interested in this fic in the slightest, I guess it's still dedicated to them, lol.
> 
> Also I just want more Lian in the world. She is babey.
> 
> Technically this is also part of a much larger plan, sort of a personal version of the DC universe (I think everyone has one because canon's so ugly), and a prequel to last December's Christmasfic.
> 
> Trigger warning for a nightmare and a nightmare-induced panic attack.

It’s a fucking terrible idea. The worst idea he can fucking think of. But he’s not really thinking at all right now.

He stumbles down the alleyway, knocking over a dustbin – who the fuck even uses metal dustbins these days? – falling against the side of a dumpster as his vision blurs. It takes every ounce of willpower to focus again. The helmet constricts, tight, claustrophobic, but he daren’t take it off. Blood is soaking out under his body armour, through his gloves, thick on his hands.

With a bitten-down snarl, it takes him longer than he’d like to reach for and pull out his grapple gun, the gesture making his head swim as he aims it at the side of the building. His whole body tenses as he releases the trigger, and the mechanism pulls him up, fast, too fast to figure himself out beyond the screaming agony, and he ragdolls into the side of the fire escape with a clang and a roar of pain. 

So much for being quiet.

He heaves himself over the railing, onto the metal catwalk, allows himself to lie there for a long, winded moment, staring up at the dead sky through metal slats. He takes in deep, helmet-stale breaths, more than he’d like, before he can find the strength to roll himself over and crawl to the window. He leaves the hook and the gun embedded in the brick.

He isn’t dexterous enough to actually figure out how to open a window right now, so he just elbows the glass, glad it’s old and cheap and gives easily. He hauls himself up by the ledge and kicks the rest of the glass in, tumbling in head-first, meeting the carpet with a grunt. He’s gonna be getting blood everywhere.

He hears the elastic stretch of a bowstring being pulled taut. He doesn’t lift his head.

“Hey, Roy,” he says, still not moving. There’s a short breath, the click of a light-switch.

“… _Jason_? Is… is that _you_?”

Jason finds a last ounce of strength, enough to roll over. “That’s me, the one and only,” he mumbles. “I’ll pay for the window, dude.”

He hears the clatter of the bow and arrow being discarded, and there he is, ginger and stubbly and looking absolutely bewildered: Speedy, Red Arrow, Arsenal… or, well, Roy Harper. God, he’s still kinda _cute_ , like when Jason was fifteen and having those Puberty Thoughts about one of his (sort of) older brother’s best friends.

“The fuck happened?” Roy demands, pulling Jason’s helmet off. Jason’s head flops back with a thump against the carpet and he winces, but at least it’s a good distraction from the pain in his side.

“Uh… bad shit,” he replies. His vision is really starting to go fuzzy from blood loss now; everything looks like he’s on vacation in Atlantis with no goggles. “Stabby shit.”

“You got _stabbed_?” Roy asks. “God… can you move?”

Jason takes a moment to consider that. “Maybe?”

Roy tuts, slinging the arm on his good side around his shoulders and hauling him over to the kitchen table. Jason cooperates as best he can by managing to sit on the edge, but Roy has to do the rest: he grabs the ridiculously well-stocked first aid kit every vigilante/hero ends up with, and a pair of scissors. Jason lets out a guttural cry when he pulls off the body armour, but at least Roy can just cut away the undershirt.

“Jesus Christ,” Roy mutters as he pulls away the fabric from where it’s stuck to the wound. “They stab you with glass?”

Roy works quick. He stuffs one of Jason’s gloves in Jason’s mouth and gets around to cleaning, stitching and bandaging, things you learn how to do fast in this line of work. 

Jason’s vision swims as he bites down on thick leather, screaming into it as the cold burn of saline pours over his flesh. He can feel the prick of the needle, in and out, methodical, and Jason knows Roy is doing his best but it’s still excruciating. It’s over soon enough though, and Jason allows himself to relax. It feels like his shoulders haven’t released tension for five fucking years.

The glove is taken away, and he smacks his lips to get rid of the taste of dirt and leather.

“The fuck are you even _doing_ here?” Roy demands. Jason turns to look at him, getting a proper look now that he isn’t going to die in the next five minutes. He’s shirtless, wearing sleep pants, hair a mess. He looks tired, and his puzzlement has changed to supreme irritation, which Jason can’t exactly _blame_ him for. He tries not to look too hard at the fiery trail leading down beneath his waistband because this is _not_ the fucking time for that.

Jason tries to sit up, gets as far as his elbow before the room starts spinning like a goddamn Beyblade.

“Only… only safe place within reach,” he admits. He hates sounding as sheepish as he does. Roy sighs.

“You’re lucky I have a generous nature.”

Jason’s jaw tightens, his eye twitches. “Thanks for the patch-up,” he mutters, and draws on every ounce of willpower he has to sit up and slide off the kitchen table. _You’ve had fucking worse, Todd,_ he snarls at himself. _Get the fuck up and get going._

Behind him, Roy groans. “You can’t go out like that, Jason,” he says wearily. He waves at the couch across the room that faces the now broken window. “Go on.”

Jason turns to him, his whole body since it hurts to pull the wound. “I’ll be gone in the morning,” he says, softer than he often speaks nowadays.

“Just don’t get blood on the cushions,” Roy grunts, though he helps Jason over to the couch, down onto it, and even flings the blanket on the back into his face. He disappears, coming back with a handful of pills and a glass of water. Jason downs them gratefully. He then tugs off his boots and gingerly lies down, letting out a stifled moan. Next to the couch, Roy is now surveying the devastation, and Jason feels guilty as fuck.

“Jesus Christ,” Roy mutters, shaking his head. He leaves, returning with a towel, which he tacks over the hole in the window. He’s now wearing, Jason notices, a pair of slides. The glass crunches under his feet.

“I’m too tired to deal with this right now.” He looks down at Jason, and it’s a look that reminds Jason of a time when he was younger. “I’m calling Dick,” he adds, and Jason bitterly thinks he kind of deserves it.

When Roy finally leaves, it’s with his bow and arrow, but not Jason’s own weapons. Roy closes the door to the den as he goes, but that’s it, that’s his only precaution. Jason swallows, spreading the blanket over himself and tucking a cushion under his head with gritted teeth, everything he does pulling at the fresh stitches. He’s being given more benefit of the doubt than he ever would have dreamt of, and he’s surprised to find himself grateful for it. It’s been… a shit few weeks. Really fucking shit. And now he’s brought this shit down on Roy. Roy, who has nothing to do with any Bat Family Drama, except perhaps hearing about it from the Golden Boy on some fucking brunch date. It’s just that… Jason really didn’t have anywhere else to go and… and…

And the thought of dying again was terrifying.

The painkillers kick in, and they lull him into a sleep that’s deeper than he’s had for a long, long time.

* * *

“Daddy, there’s a strange man on the couch!”

Jason jerks awake, and immediately pain erupts from his side, spilling up and down his nerves, enough to have him let out a choked cry.

“Shit!” comes Roy’s voice from elsewhere, and the sound of running.

Jason just notices a pair of huge brown eyes, jet black hair, and round cheeks before the face is snatched away. Of course. _Lian._

“You said a bad word, Daddy!” the little girl says reproachfully.

“Yeah, well, Daddy’s _really_ stressed right now,” Roy mutters. Jason can’t see what’s happening, but he assumes Roy deposits his daughter out of sight because he comes back empty-armed to tower over Jason, arms folded and scowl dark. “You said you’d be gone.”

Jason finds the strength within himself to sit up, scrub at his face. His wound is throbbing, a steady drumbeat from his hip up to his brain. The blanket falls away.

“Daddy, he’s bleeding!”

Jason looks down. Sure enough, the white bandage on his side is stained red. 

Well shit.

“Good job there, Harper,” he quips before he can stop himself. Roy glares at him.

“It was two in the damn morning,” he snaps, but he goes and gets the first aid kit and kneels down. “Lian, why don’t you go to your room while Daddy deals with this?”

Jason looks at Lian. She’s at the foot of the couch, tiny hands on the armrest, and she looks mortally curious, staring at Jason’s face with wide, walnut eyes.

“I wanna stay!” she protests.

“Lian, go to your room!” Roy barks, and from the look on Lian’s face it’s clear she’s never really ordered to do anything with that tone of voice. She steps back, looking mortified, eyes beginning to water. She hurries away, face glued to the ground.

“She could have stayed,” Jason says before he can stop himself. Roy glowers at him.

“You think I want her seeing this?!” he hisses. “I don’t bring this shit home with me if I can help it.”

 _And now you’ve ruined everything_ is implicit in Roy’s mechanical movements and the set of his jaw. He works less quickly now, and Jason isn’t sure whether it’s because he wants to do a good job or because he wants Jason to _feel_ the needle even more vividly than he did last night. Jason grits his teeth, only letting out the barest of whines until Roy is done, the wound sewn back up and freshly cleaned.

“I’m sorry, Roy,” Jason mumbles. Roy ignores him.

He stands up, disappears into the kitchen, out of sight. That’s when Jason notices a small face peeping around the doorjamb. He raises an eyebrow, and mutters a curse when Lian seems to take that as an invitation from authority to come over to the couch.

“Who’re you?” she asks.

Before Jason can answer, Roy is groaning.

“Lian, do you _ever_ listen?!”

She pouts at that. “This is my house too!” she protests, and Jason has to stifle a snigger behind his hand, though it quickly turns to another moan as the stitches remind him that mirth isn’t something he’s allowed right now. Roy throws up his hands and stalks back over with another glass of water and the accompanying pills.

“Fine. Whatever.”

Lian turns back to Jason. “Who’re you?” she repeats, waiting for Jason to swallow his cocktail patiently.

“I, uh… I’m Jason. I used to work with your dad sometimes.”

“Did _you_ break the window?” she asks. Jason winces.

“Uh… yeah. Sorry.”

“What’s that?” She points at his chest, and Jason suddenly remembers something horrible.

The Pit didn’t fix everything. Apparently, some things ran just a little too deep.

He snatches up the blanket and holds it up to his chest, eyes wide, completely ignoring the screech along his nerves from his hip. The glass topples to the ground. His hands are twitching, his teeth dig into his bottom lip.

“I-it’s nothing,” he mutters. “Nothing.”

Roy is there in a flash. He picks up the glass, gently pulls Lian after him, and he’s much softer now.

“I think that’s enough questions, baby girl,” he says. He takes her to the kitchen, sits her at the table. “Jason… Jason is, a, uh… he’s a colleague of Uncle Dick. He got hurt last night, so he came here because he knew he’d be safe.”

Jason’s insides turn sour. ‘Uncle Dick’. Fuck him.

“Then he needs to stay, Daddy,” Lian says emphatically. “We need to take care of him.”

Roy sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “He has to leave, pumpkin, he can’t-”

“I thought your job was helping people?” she counters, and Jason has to admire how sharp this kid is. She can’t be older than five at the most. Jesus, she’s quick. It also helps that she obviously has Roy wrapped around her little finger, very fucking tight indeed.

Roy looks over at Jason. Their eyes meet, and Jason has no idea what he’s thinking – or maybe he just can’t be assed to read him right now.

“We can help him, Daddy. I’ll help!”

Jason is sure her pleading is being accompanied by a killer set of puppy-dog eyes. Roy is quiet, quiet for longer than Jason is comfortable with, before he sighs again, more roughly this time.

“Fine.”

Lian claps her hands. “I’ll help!” she repeats, and hops back off the chair, over to Jason. “Do you need any help?” she asks politely, looking more enthusiastic to deal with a convalescent than anyone should have any right to. Jason shakes his head.

“No, I’m good for now,” he says, and he can feel the sides of his mouth tug up, the corners of his eyes crinkle. He hasn’t smiled so sincerely in what feels like a fucking century.

Roy, he realises, is watching intently, hawk-like. Jason meets his eyes and then looks away, at Lian’s pout of disappointment.

“Darn,” she huffs, crossing her arms. That’s when Roy comes and plucks her from the ground again, back to the kitchen.

“Daddy’s gotta clean up,” he says.

Jason wishes he could help, but if he does anything more strenuous than sit there, he’s definitely going to burst his stitches again. He watches guiltily as Roy gets out a vacuum and deals with the glass. Next he makes toast for Lian, and Jason is shocked when he’s presented perfunctorily with his own plate.

“Thank you,” he says and remembers he hasn’t actually eaten in a day and a half. It’s just plain white bread and butter, but it’s so good to have something in his stomach that isn’t painkillers that he doesn’t care.

The next thing he’s given is a t-shirt, an old Nine Inch Nails one that’s pretty ratty. It takes Jason a good three minutes to pull it on with delicate movements, but at least it covers his chest. He _definitely_ wants his chest covered.

Then Roy leaves him be. 

He ushers Lian back to her room and disappears into his own, leaving Jason to stew in his own misery. That’s fine with him. He settles back down with gritted teeth and a couple of sharp gasps and stares at the ceiling.

It’s odd, he thinks, that he didn’t have a nightmare last night. Of course, _all_ his life is a nightmare, but it’s strange not to have that follow him into slumber.

* * *

It’s after lunch when Lian reappears. She’s holding the bottom of her Mulan shirt up like a peasant girl would hold up her apron, and it’s full of… hair? She heads over the couch with great purpose and dumps a pile of assorted pony toys beside Jason.

“You seem bored,” she says, sitting down next to him.

She’s not… entirely wrong. Jason’s been reciting Shakespeare in his head like he always does when he’s bored and needs to chase intrusive thoughts away. He hasn’t had the guts to turn on the TV. That seems too… familiar. Strangely _intimate_. It’s not his place to do that - it feels like it would be another intrusion, a breach of some unspoken rule.

“So… you brought ponies?” he asks, picking one up. It’s bright blue with rainbow hair and wings. Jesus.

“Yes, I brought ponies,” she says, taking the blue one away and handing him another, slightly larger one with a dark blue mohawk and an entire fantasy scene painted on the side. “That’s Soarin’. He’s a boy, so you can play with him.”

“Oh? And who are the others?”

Lian, with great seriousness, introduces them one by one. Jason tries his damnedest to remember which is which, but there are only so many ridiculous names he can absorb. The one he does remember, however, is…

“This is Big Mac,” Lian explains, holding up a red pony. “I like him because he looks like Daddy.”

There’s a jolt of pain as Jason laughs, but he fights it down. It really _does_ look like Roy, he thinks: green eyes, ginger hair… He fights down the urge to take the pony and get a closer look. Lian is now explaining the intricacies of pony society, and it’s honestly harder to follow than _A Song of Ice and Fire_.

It gets even worse when she _quizzes_ him.

“So, uh… Twilight Sparkle?” He holds up the purple winged unicorn. Lian nods happily.

“She likes to read,” she says. “She had a library, but it was destroyed, so now she has a castle.”

Jason kinda likes Twilight Sparkle. He likes bookworms, they’re kindred spirits.

The rest of the afternoon passes with adventures in wherever the ponies live, and Jason does _try_ to keep up, he really does. Lian has the patience of a saint and rather than getting frustrated, just explains everything again. Bless her, she must feel like she’s talking to a fucking dumbass.

It’s mid-afternoon when he notices Roy leaning against the doorway, watching them. He has a shit-eating grin plastered across his face, a glint of mischief in his eye, and it makes Jason feel so much younger, and so very ridiculous. Despite last night’s blood loss, he can feel his face heating up.

“Oh! Do you want to play, Daddy?” Lian asks. Roy shakes his head.

“No, I’m good, sweetheart. Is Jason getting it right?”

Lian lets out the long-suffering sigh of a much older woman. “No, he’s terrible at it,” she says with fond exasperation. Christ, this kid is five going on fifty.

Jason doesn’t move much, not wanting to aggravate his stitches any more than strictly necessary. The bathroom is about as far as he’ll go, and he ignores the increasing rumbling in his stomach – it’s not like he can just take Roy’s food.

Lian, despite sitting cross-legged on the floor, fully engrossed in her cartoons, has the ears of a… bat (always a sour comparison), because her jet-black head whips round as soon as she hears it.

“Daddy!” she calls. “Jason’s hungry!”

Jason wants the couch to devour him and never spit him out. Roy emerges from… wherever he was, cleaning his hands on a rag, and gives Jason an appraising look. Jason doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I guess it’s nearly dinner time anyway,” he says. “Allergic to anything?”

Jason looks up. “Uh… no.”

“Good.” And Roy heads to the kitchen.

Jason rises off the couch, swaying a bit, to follow. He could make himself useful, try to do something, but when Roy notices him, he glares.

“Sit your butt down, Todd,” he barks. “You’re injured.”

Jason resists the urge to act much younger than he is and pout, and instead sits. He watches Roy putter around, opening cupboards and a fridge that are frighteningly empty, and occasionally adding something to the list written on a notepad stuck to the wall. That’s… efficient. Jason usually picks up takeout and eats it in whichever hovel he’s calling a safe house right now. Cooking would be nice, but… he can’t exactly do that right now. He misses cooking.

Roy cooks, and it honestly breaks Jason’s heart. Alfred taught him a lot and what Alfred didn’t teach him he picked up on his own, and… Roy’s methodology and results bring him great pain, more than the stab wound in his side ever could. He’s torn between horror at what Roy is making and the twinge of interest from other, mostly ignored parts, parts that have been buried deep for years. Parts that remember how enticing the line of Roy’s jaw is, or the breadth of his shoulders. Jason focuses on the culinary horrorfest unfolding before him, quashing any and all remnants of older feelings.

It’s powdered cheese and milk, a passable mac and cheese. It’s… fine. It fills a hole. Jason’s not a foodie, he used to eat out of dumpsters as a kid. He’s eaten worse.

At least Roy remembered to add _salt_.

Lian tucks in happily, but that’s probably because she’s used to it. From the number of menus stuck to the fridge, it’s clear they have way too much takeout, far more than is healthy.

Jason purses his lips thoughtfully.

“What’s that look for?” Roy asks, and Jason’s attention snaps back to him.

“Uh… nothing in particular,” he mutters, forcing his gaze back down to his plate. He can remember the edge, the weird feeling in his stomach of being an inconvenience. It never fully went away in the Manor, and it’s come back full force right now.

“I can wash the dishes,” Jason offers, once the plates are cleared. Anything, _anything_ , to pay Roy back. Roy snorts.

“Just sit down,” he says. “It’s fine.”

To Jason, it very much isn’t fine.

Painkillers and lights out later, Jason is staring at the ceiling, and those thoughts from earlier come crashing back, reminding him of a crush he’d thought was long past. He’d been fifteen and Roy had been older and… so, so tempting. Red hair and green eyes and that lopsided grin, those bare arms, that absurd plunging neckline that showed off way too much chest… he hasn’t changed much, a few more lines around his eyes, his hair a little shorter, but the rest… the rest is exactly the same as what used to wake Jason up in the night, hot and sticky with unfulfilled longing.

He’s waxing poetic about the freaking wet dreams he used to have about Roy Harper. Great. _Good job there, Todd._ It wasn’t like Roy would ever look at him. Back then he’d been fifteen, and now… well, he still isn’t _Dickie Boy_ , is he? Who can ever fucking compare to _him_?

Jason’s slumber is bitter, and though nightmares don’t wake him screaming – a pleasant novelty he doesn’t want to lose – there are still tendrils of green at the corners of his mind, prowling. Ready.

* * *

There’s a fresh set of clothes on the opposite armrest to the one Jason rests his head on the next morning. There’s also a guest towel, a washcloth, and a toothbrush.

They bump into each other in the cramped hallway to the bathroom, and Jason fails at not blushing. Roy is so close, stupidly close, and Jason isn’t sure whether the spinning sensation is from the jolt of pain in his side or the scent of Roy’s aftershave.

“Uh, thanks,” he says, holding up the pile. Roy shrugs.

“I’d be a shitty host if I let you stink up the place,” he says with a smirk. He steps back, lets Jason pass, and Jason takes refuge in the bathroom for a strip wash and an existential crisis when he realises he’s _wearing Roy’s underwear_.

He resists the urge to run his fingers along the waistband. They’re just a pair of fucking boxers, and it’s not like there was anything else he could wear. Jason forces down the half-chub through sheer willpower. _It means nothing, you pervert,_ he thinks.

Once he leaves the bathroom, he heads back to the couch where Lian is sitting cross-legged, watching cartoons. There aren’t any colourful horses, so it’s nothing to do with the ponies from yesterday.

“Jason!”

Jason looks away from the TV, and Roy is in the kitchen, standing there, waiting for him. He pats the first aid kit that’s already waiting on the table.

Roy doesn’t have to fix his stitches this time, thank fuck, but now Jason has another problem. He’s wearing Roy’s clothes (his fucking _underwear_ ), and Roy is kneeling beside him as he deals with the wound. Jason’s head is in all the wrong fucking places and he daren’t look down, he _daren’t_ , otherwise he’ll have a mental image ( _somewhere else where Roy could kneel_ ) that will definitely make his pants uncomfortably tight, and hiding a hard-on in sweatpants isn’t exactly easy. He takes a deep, slightly trembling breath, to steady himself, but Roy notices. Of _course_ he notices, he’s right fucking _there_.

“You ok?” he asks. Jason nods stiffly.

“Just sore,” he mutters, pointedly not looking down. Thank God Roy’s done, because he straightens, snapping the first aid box shut and placing it in the counter – no point putting it away since it’s getting so much use.

“That’s what these are for,” he says, placing the usual glass and painkillers on the table. Jason feels safe enough to look up at Roy now.

“Thanks,” he says. Roy shrugs, patting him on the shoulder, light, perfunctory, but _there_ , and Jason suddenly feels tremendously guilty about his thoughts. He needs to _stop_. Roy is doing enough for him already without Jason perving on him like this. It’s not something Roy would ever want anyway.

* * *

“I have to go out.”

Jason looks at Roy. He can sense the suspicion there, like Jason is going to set fire to the place as soon as Roy is out the door. He feels a little embittered by that, and it’s not just because he was bitter the night before and woke up bitter today.

“I’m… trusting you with Lian,” Roy adds. His green eyes narrow, but still burn. Jason can’t help but feel this is some sort of test, and his fist clenches by his thigh. He hasn’t exactly tried to murder them in their sleep. Roy could stand to trust him a little by now, even though it’s only been a day.

Ok, so it’s only been a _day_. And he didn’t exactly make the most positive entrance, breaking a window and… and…

_Oops._

“Uh… Roy?”

Roy raises his eyebrows.

“You, uh… might wanna do something about the, uh… grappling hook.”

He should do something about the window too, but one thing at a time.

“What?” Roy heads to the broken window, tugs off the towel and clambers out. Jason hears him curse quietly, and there’s a metallic sound, not quite a crash. Roy returns and tosses the hook and gun on the couch beside Jason.

“Trying to freaking out me to the whole neighbourhood?” he snaps, and Jason feels hot-cold with guilt again. Roy shakes his head.

“See you in a bit,” he mutters. Lian gets a kiss on the cheek and a quick tickle on her tummy, and then Roy is out the door.

Lian rocks back and forth on her heels, staring at Jason very unsubtly. She seems surprised when Jason stands up.

“Whatcha doing?” she asks, following him into the kitchen.

“We’re gonna make dinner,” Jason explains, poking around in the cupboards. Luckily, there’s just enough of what he needs.

He’d thought about this over dinner the night before, and he’s relieved he has enough to make the plan work. Pulling stuff out of the cupboards doesn’t do his wound any favours, but he doesn’t care about that right now. Lian watches curiously, kneeling on her chair, chin on her folded arms.

“You’ve got all these spices, but your dad doesn’t use them,” Jason mutters. “Hey… want some music on?”

He finds his phone, and then sighs. Ok, so… no music. Not when his phone is dead. Lian tilts her head.

“Can I see the charger port?”

Jason shows her, and she immediately disappears in the direction of the bedrooms. She comes back a couple of minutes later with the perfect charger, and Jason is impressed. She beams as she hands it to him.

“Your dad just has a load of spare chargers?” he asks, plugging his phone in and waiting for a moment.

“He’s always collecting stuff for spare parts,” she replies. “So many boxes full of junk.” She’s got that long-suffering tone again, like a woman who has seen far too much in her long life. There should be a wine glass in her hand. It makes Jason chuckle, wincing when, again, his stitches pull. That’s getting really old really fast.

He finds a bowl and throws in all the ingredients he needs. It’s not the smartest idea to knead bread with a stab wound in his side, but he’ll get through it. Ignoring pain is one of Jason’s favourite skills.

“What are you making?” Lian asks.

“Something your dad will hopefully like,” he says. He covers the bowl with a cloth and finds a cupboard with enough room to let it rest. Now he can worry about the rest of the food, and he starts his playlist.

Lian’s eyes widen. “That’s not like Daddy’s music!” she exclaims.

“You’ve never heard _West Side Story_? That’s a crime.”

While he cooks and sings, to Lian’s delight, Jason tries not to think about how he’s trying way too hard. He pushes away the self-mockery that speaks of trying to ply someone with food, quashing the thoughts as best he can. Trouble is, he’s never been very good at not thinking about shit. It’s why he spends so much time kicking ass and shooting people in the face; the violence keeps his mind at bay, allows him to not think about how much of a fucking disappointment he is and just focus on continuing to be a fucking disappointment without the guilt.

When the door opens, signalling Roy’s return, Jason has just started frying. He stops the music quickly, heart thudding. He’ll know, in the next minute or so, whether this was a good idea after all.

Lian leaps off her chair and disappears outside the kitchen, probably to throw her arms around him.

Jason doesn’t turn even when he can sense Roy’s presence behind him. He focuses on the pan, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

“That smells amazing,” is what Roy says, and Jason is sure he visibly deflates in relief. He turns with a half-there smile.

“I, uh… figured I’d do something, you know, since I’m here…” he says. Roy nods, placing Lian back down at the table and heading over to Jason’s side to see exactly what’s on the menu. He’s close, close enough that Jason can feel the heat of his arm against his own.

“You’re… you’re making frybread?” Roy asks. His voice is quiet, and Jason can’t read it, so he dares to look. Roy’s eyes are wide.

“Uh, yeah. You had the ingredients, so…”

Roy looks pointedly at his side, then right at him. “Sure that didn’t do your stitches any favours, you know.”

Jason shrugs. Perhaps the pain is as much penance as the cooking.

Dinner is easy, easier than the night before. The first bite Roy takes, he closes his eyes, hums in pleasure, and Jason focuses intently on his plate.

“This is _so good_ , Jason,” he says, and Jason shrugs again.

“It’s just beans and rice,” he mutters, but he can feel his ears heat up.

“Can Jason cook for us every day?” Lian asks eagerly. Roy snorts.

“Pumpkin, you can’t just…”

“I would,” Jason says quickly. He bites his tongue at how stupidly eager that sounded. “I mean… for as long as I’m here, it’s not a problem.”

Roy’s gaze is appraising. Jason can feel it like a physical touch.

Once Lian has had her bath and is put to bed, Roy reappears in the den, holding the first aid kit.

“Wound time,” he says. Jason nods, gingerly holding up his tee (well, Roy’s tee, a little tight around the chest) without removing it. Roy takes a moment to study the stitches, and sure enough, he picks up the needle and thread with a long sigh.

“You shouldn’t be exerting yourself,” he says. “This is the third time. Just take it fucking easy.”

Jason makes a face before he can stop himself and Roy shakes his head.

“I swear, you Bats are all the same,” he mutters. Jason stiffens, fists clenching, the taste of bile in his mouth. His jaw twitches with the effort to keep the anger inside.

“Don’t,” is what he grits out, a warning. Roy wisely pulls back, frowning.

“Guess this is the wrong time to mention who I saw today, then,” he says coolly, pulling out the saline solution. Jason lets out a snarl when it hits his wound – it fucking burns.

“I take it you saw little _Dickybird_ ,” Jason spits. He digs his fingers into the arm of the sofa.

“Yeah. I did.” Roy pats the wound dry with more force than is necessary, and Jason lets out another guttural cry, the pain ricocheting up his side like lightning, sharp and sickening.

“So, are you gonna take his fucking advice and tell me to fuck off?” Jason is aware of the viciousness, but now he’s past caring, like he’s past caring about the fucking Bats: the precious fucking Golden Boy, the fucking shit-for-brains _replacement_ and _especially_ the fucking chief bastard himself. Roy glares at him.

“No, I’m actually not,” he snaps. “This will take at least two weeks to heal enough that you can leave, and I fucking told him that.” He slaps the last of the tape on, throws the stuff back in the first aid box and stands. “I said you were welcome here. Don’t make me change my fucking mind.”

He stalks off back to the bathroom, and Jason slumps against the couch, stewing mutinously and now feeling guilty again. Roy returns just to toss a bunch of pills at him before he fucks off again. Jason takes them dry out of spite, but it only really spites himself.

He lays back on the couch, staring holes in the ceiling. There is, he notices, a bullet hole right above him, and not far from it, a deeply-lodged arrowhead. Those are the only interesting features, and Jason closes his eyes, still trying to chase away the bitterness and the noisy, distracting thoughts of Roy from his head.

* * *

Jason wakes up screaming.

His eyes don’t see, even though they’re open as wide as they can go. The blanket is tangled around his legs, making him thrash more. The sounds he’s letting out are inhuman, raw, the pinnacle of terror.

He doesn’t notice the thud of footsteps, or the crash of Roy’s body into the doorframe as he throws himself across the room. He doesn’t notice his arms flying up, hands around Roy’s throat. All he knows is his mouth full of _dirtliquid_ , his eyes full of _blackacidgreen_ , his nose full of _wetsoilchemicals_.

Roy gets his hands there in the split second before the grip tightens, shoving Jason’s hands away. He doesn’t pin them, just holds them.

“It’s ok, Jay. It’s ok.”

Jason’s chest heaves, and tears pour down his face as his screams dull down to whimpers. His limbs still twitch.

“Bruce?” His voice is tiny, trembling, so much younger.

One of Roy’s hands goes to his face, tilting it ever-so-gently. Jason’s eyes are almost circles, the blue shot with vivid, electric green.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Jason shakes violently as he rises, pressing close to Roy, face buried in his neck. Roy lets him, keeps him arms loose around him, but there.

How many times has Jason fallen awake like this with no one there to catch him?

“Daddy? Daddy, what’s going on?”

Lian’s voice is tiny as well. Afraid. Roy turns, swallows, and the movement makes Jason whimper again.

“It’s ok, baby girl… Jay just had a nightmare.”

Lian lets out a tiny gasp. “Oh no!”

“Go back to bed, sweetie, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Lian nods, but hesitates. She casts Jason a worried look, still holding on to the doorjamb.

Jason is settling. The shudders are still there, but they lessen to trembling. He is slow to return to reality, but when he does, he stiffens.

He’s in Roy’s arms. Like he fucking belongs there. He jerks backwards, his grunt of pain allowing himself an excuse to shut his eyes tight and not have to look at Roy’s face. He doesn’t want to see what’s there.

“You back with us, Jay?” Roy asks, and it’s so fucking soft Jason almost wants to punch him. He doesn’t deserve soft.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, ‘m good.”

“Okay. I’m just gonna check on Lian, I’ll be right back.”

Roy goes, but his words hit Jason heavily. _I’ll be right back_. Oh, dear God.

Jason sits up, extricates his legs from the tangled blanket, and swallows down the bile of humiliation. He feels so… _dirty_. This vulnerability makes him feel dirty, and weak… He draws his legs up, presses his hands to the sides of his head and focuses on his breathing, even as old demons still scratch at the recesses of his mind, insistent like a cat at a closed door.

He rocks gently. By now the nightmares overlap, merging together into one huge, horrific ball of terror and suffocation, clawing its way up his oesophagus. The thoughts don’t leave. They always take forever to leave. He can feel it, in his throat…

He tears off the cover and scrambles to the kitchen, tripping over himself to get to the sink and puke up his guts into it. That’s the scene Roy comes back to, because all of a sudden he’s there right beside Jason, rubbing his back through it.

Jason braces himself on the edge of the sink. His head is doing backflips, his stomach is inside out, and the spliced memories can’t ebb fast enough. He groans weakly, reaching up to wipe at his eyes.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I… I scared Lian.”

“Dude, don’t _say_ that,” Roy says. “It’s… it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Jason has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep the tears in. He _will not_ cry. He hasn’t earnt that privilege. He takes a deep breath, another, a third, and Roy’s hands, one on his back, one on his bicep, refuse to leave him. They’re twin spots of warmth in the cold aftermath, and Jason finds himself focusing on them, using them like a lighthouse back to where the world makes sense.

Well, maybe not _sense_ , more like a world he can deal with.

“Better?” Roy asks softly. 

Jason thinks about it, opening his eyes, then nods. “Bit.”

“Good,” Roy says, and one of his hands goes to Jason’s hair, combs through the sweaty, tangled mess as if it’s not disgusting to touch.

Jason wants to fall into it. Wants to fall into those arms again, let them cradle him, just soak in their warm as if he’s allowed it. He can’t resist leaning into Roy’s touch, his eyes sliding shut again. He catches himself, his eyes flying open, and he straightens, even though the world spins and he feels nauseous again.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. He totters away, taking a few deep breaths, and not daring to look Roy’s way. He’s too afraid to.

“You okay going back to sleep?” Roy asks, sticking close even though Jason moved away. He’s so concerned, and Jason hasn’t the willpower to shy away from him.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he says. Roy stays by his side, eases him down onto the couch, even fucking covers him up like he’s a child, and if Jason’s brain wasn’t still a scrambled, green-tinged mess he’d laugh at the irony. _There’s your proof, Todd,_ he thinks bitterly. _You’re just a kid to him._

Roy pats his chest and straightens up, looking back as he leaves. Jason doesn’t look away fast enough, and those green eyes meet his, and Jason has a terrible, cloying fear that he _knows_.

He doesn’t get any more sleep that night.

* * *

“Are you okay, Jay?”

Jason turns. Lian’s hands are on the armrest, balled into tiny fists, and her round, sweet face is full of concern that shouldn’t be there. Jason swallows.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m good.”

She hesitates, only a moment, before cautiously rounding the couch and climbing onto the seat beside him. She doesn’t look at him, preferring to fiddle with the bow on her sock.

“Daddy said you’re not well,” she murmurs.

Jason feels ice creep up his spine. _Not well_ … is that the term they’re using now, instead of ‘fucking insane’?

Why is he still here? Why is Roy allowing him to be here, to interact with his daughter, as if he isn’t horrendously dangerous…

“Does he?” Jason mutters, monotone. Lian nods.

“He said your head is hurt as well. He said bad things happened to you, and made you upset, and that’s why you have nightmares.”

She is quiet for a moment, and Jason notices her looking around the apartment. Once she is satisfied, she turns to him, beckons him closer. Jason falters for a moment, before leaning it.

“Daddy has nightmares sometimes, too,” she whispers. “He thinks I don’t know, but I hear him crying. He doesn’t like me getting out of bed at night, though, so I can’t hug him.” She starts to sniffle.

Jason has to look away, covers his mouth with his hand. How is he even supposed to react to this? How is he supposed to process this little girl, so young, already weary beyond her years? Is the child of every hero like this? Will they be?

Then again… her life is still infinitely better than his own was. When Jason was sitting on a dirty floor under a table, listening to furious screams and crashes, when Jason was shaking his mother desperately on the bathroom linoleum, the smell of vomit making him want to be sick as well… Lian will never know that sort of heartbreak, that sort of emptiness. Roy adores Lian. Roy would move mountains for this child, drain oceans and pluck stars from the sky for her.

Jason reaches out a hand, runs it through Lian’s hair.

“You make him happy, Lian,” he says. “Having you is all the comfort he needs.” Lian looks up, and suddenly her arms are around Jason’s middle, her face buried into his side, and Jason doesn’t know what to do with his hands for a long, awkward moment. He eventually lets one rest on her back, gentle as he can be, trying to ignore the pain that shot through him when she grabbed him.

That’s the scene Roy walks in to. He stops on the threshold, watching, silent. Jason looks up, meets his gaze, and he’s not sure what he sees there, whether the fondness is nothing but wishful thinking. He swallows, looks away, down at Lian again.

When she peels away from him, she notices Roy. She practically launches herself off the sofa and wraps her arms around his legs, squeezing as tightly as she can.

“Hey! What’s up, Pumpkin?”

Lian shakes her head against his thigh, and then lets go, disappearing down the corridor to her room. She leaves Jason and Roy alone, with each other, and Jason almost wishes she hadn’t. Children have a way of draining the tension from a room, and they could really do with that right now.

“She likes you,” Roy says eventually, rubbing the back of his neck. Jason stares at the carpet.

“Can’t think why,” he says. “There’s not much about me that’s likeable.” He winces at his own words, annoyed at breaking his own façade. Outside, he’s cocky, brash, goddamn bombastic to compensate for the shadowy leeches sapping away inside him, but here… here with Roy, where he’s just been embraced by a child who doesn’t know any better, doesn’t know what he’s _done_ …

Roy snorts, and Jason looks up to see him with folded arms and a sceptical look.

“You’re all right, Jason,” he says. As he heads to the kitchen, he squeezes Jason’s shoulder. 

The spot he touched burns.

* * *

“Is that one of my engineering manuals?”

Jason lowers the book to look at Roy, who is carrying two full bags of groceries and closing the door behind him with a nudge of his hip, a movement which Jason tries very hard not to notice. He fails miserably. Lian is in tow, sucking happily on a lollipop.

“Yeah, uh… sorry. I got… bored.”

Roy snorts. “It’s fine. Nothing on Netflix?” He puts the bags on the kitchen table, Lian clambering up onto a chair.

“I didn’t even check,” Jason admits, holding the book against his chest and he hoists himself up. “Your bookshelf isn’t exactly dedicated to fiction, though.”

Roy shrugs. “Not interested,” he says. He looks thoughtful, though, and Jason wonders why.

“I have some books, Jay!” Lian pipes up. Jason can’t help but be surprised at the sudden use of a nickname. It’s been three days, and she’s already latched onto him in a way that, frankly, scares him. He’s going to be gone… who knows if he’ll ever see her again?

He’s jerked from his thoughts by a cascade of books beside him. They’re all picture books and the occasional very slim chapter book for younger readers, with colourful, cartoony covers. Jason never saw much of these as a kid, and he has reason to believe he’s not quite the right age for them anymore, but he’s not exactly going to say that. Disappointing Lian would be the greatest crime he’d ever committed.

“Thanks, Lian,” he says, ruffling her hair, which makes her beam.

Dinner is burgers, but at least Roy cooks them himself, with fresh lettuce and sliced tomato (which gets glared at by Lian). Jason is less impressed with the frozen fries.

“I could have done fresh ones,” he says. Roy picks one up and very pointedly puts it in his mouth and chews it. Jason shakes his head, allowing himself a chuckle. Roy grins back, and Jason feels like something is shifting, changing. It would make sense, he supposes: if Jason has gained Lian’s trust, perhaps Roy feels he’s deserving of his… but _is_ he?

Jason retreats into himself, into the bitter tar-black stew of his own self-loathing, and focuses on his plate, willing the moment to pass.

* * *

“You can turn on the TV, you know.”

Roy has just returned from putting away the first aid kit – the needle mercifully unused tonight – and leans against the doorjamb, one arm above his head, the other hand on his hip. Jason tries so hard not to notice the angle of his body, the tantalising view of his bare side through the drop armholes of his vest, the tattoos on his biceps – again, he fails. It’s impossible for him to not notice Roy, to not be beaten around the head by how attractive he is and always has been.

“I was aware that was a physical possibility, yeah,” Jason replies, earning a snort from Roy. It makes everything worse when he takes the space on the couch next to Jason, remote in hand.

“I meant you’re allowed to _watch_ it,” he says, switching it on. “You’re gonna be bored to death otherwise.”

Jason forces himself to release the tension, to relax, to ignore the scant inches between them.

“What’re you up for?” Roy asks, scrolling through Netflix. Jason huffs.

“Honestly, I don’t know what half this stuff is,” he says. Roy looks at him, and Jason looks right back. “I was dead.”

Roy has the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry.”

It’s Jason’s turn to snort. “It happened,” he says with a shrug. “Show me something you like.”

Roy then takes an absurd amount of time to decide, humming and hawing, leaving Jason to let his head drop on the back of the couch with a groan.

“Just pick something, dude!” he begs. “That thing!”

“ _Stranger Things_?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Jason pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Roy grins.

“Good choice.”

It’s not like Jason actually watches it. He can’t concentrate, not when every fibre of his being is loudly reminding him of how close Roy is, how he could just shift, ever-so-slightly, and their thighs would be pressed together… He almost jumps out of his skin when Roy changes position, and their legs touch.

Jason goes very still, and clenches the fist that lies on the armrest, drawing in a deep breath. The heat of Roy’s leg burns through his sweatpants, sends fire licking through his veins. He rubs his face, leaving his hand there. A casual touch like this shouldn’t be affecting him so much.

“Whoa, Jay, are you ok?”

His jaw clenches. “Fine,” he huffs, wishing that were actually the case. To his horror, Roy gets closer, places a hand on his shoulder.

“Need more painkillers?” he asks, gently, and the tone of his voice makes Jason take his hand away and look right at him.

Roy’s _close_. He’s _so_ close, all green eyes and slightly bumpy nose and concerned frown and just… _just_ …

Jason places his hands on either side of Roy’s head, closes the gap, slowly, heart pounding, but… Roy takes his wrists, gently lowering his arms.

“Jason…” He gives him a look that’s full on fucking pity and that makes Jason’s stomach turn. Jason tears his arms out of Roy’s grasp, snorting derisively.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I’m not fucking Dick,” he spits, getting to his feet, gaining distance, face twisted. That’s always it, isn’t it? He’s _never_ Dick. He’s _never_ going to be Dick. He’s never good enough to replace, only ever _be_ replaced.

Roy shakes his head. “That’s not the point, Jason –”

“Then what _is_ the point?!” Jason retorts. “What’s the fucking _point_ , Harper?”

Roy rakes a hand through his hair, letting out a sharp sigh of frustration. He’s stood up as well. “I don’t even fucking know.”

“Then what’s fucking stopping you?” Jason demands, even though he himself can give five different logical answers – he just doesn’t give a shit about them right now. He takes a fistful of Roy’s shirt, pulls him in, their noses brushing, their lips excruciatingly close, and Jesus _fuck_ , Jason’s wanted this since he was fifteen.

Roy is the one who closes the distance. He crushes his mouth to Jason’s, reeling Jason in with broad, callused hands on either side of his head, mirroring Jason earlier. And Jason folds into the touch, into the kiss, his hands finding Roy’s biceps, their chests pressed together. Jason doesn’t want to let him go when he pulls back, chasing his lips. His eyes flutter open. Roy’s are burning.

Everything is unspoken as Roy pulls him back, out of the den, down the tiny hallway, into the bedroom on the left with its unmade double bed and half-open curtains Jason barely notices because his mouth is back against Roy’s, rough and starving. He doesn’t even know how they get on the bed but they’re there, Roy’s hands on him, all over, _everywhere_ , and Jason does the same, allowing touch to catch up with sight and imagination.

Roy straddles him, pulls off his vest and Jason drags him back in to get his mouth on that freckled skin, tasting it, groaning against it. Roy’s hands go for the hem of Jason’s tee, and Jason goes rigid, nerves turning to ice.

“Jay?” Roy murmurs, and God, he sounds so _soft_ , he shouldn’t be sounding so _soft_. Jason’s fists clench.

Some things ran too deep. Some things the Pit wouldn’t fix. Some things haunt him every time he looks at his bare chest in the mirror, down from his shoulders, meeting in the centre of his chest, and then down, down…

Roy’s fingers are in his hair, stroking gently. “It’s ok, Jay. Let me see?”

Jason looks at him, aware now of how harsh his breathing is, how fast and laboured and thick with the swell of fear it is. He stares, and those green eyes seem so kind, so soft… He nods.

Roy slides his shirt up, slowly. He makes sure to keep his touch gentle, almost _reverent_ , if Jason could kid himself into believing he is something worthy of such a sentiment. They’re not vivid, they’re not deep, but they’re there, grooves and pockmarks, enough to be a constant, hideous reminder, unmistakeable for anything else. Roy’s hands are tender, ridiculously tender, when he slips them down, over Jason’s chest, down over the ridges of his abs.

Then Roy’s lips are on his skin, kissing a trail across him, down him, following the paler lines, and Jason feels like weeping. He is intensely aware he doesn’t deserve this. He throws an arm over his face, hiding in the crook of his elbow, shuddering when Roy’s lips retrace their path upwards.

“Jason… look at me.”

Jason dares to.

Roy kisses him, deep and slow and languid, one hand stroking Jason’s good side, his other thumb rubbing at Jason’s wrist. It’s as if he’s trying to remind him he’s _alive_ , he’s _there_.

Joke’s on Roy, Jason’s never felt more alive as when he wraps his arms around Roy’s shoulders, pulls him in closer, pressing their chests together, bare skin to bare skin. His pulse is thrumming, pounding in his ears, his cock swells, and he arches, gasping into Roy’s hungry mouth as he rocks into Roy’s own erection, the sensation like thunder. He does it again, again, sets up a pace that Roy responds to, answers in kind, groaning into Jason’s skin as he pulls away from Jason’s mouth and bites at his chin, his jawline, tugs his earlobe and licks a strip down his neck.

“Wait, wait…”

Roy is pulling away, panting, looking Jason right in the eyes. His pupils are dilated, his lids heavy, his gaze full of heat. His lips are swollen, and he smirks in a way that makes Jason hotter than he’s ever been. Jason lets out an impatient growl, making Roy chuckle and press a wet kiss to the space between jawline and ear.

“Hang on…” he mutters, and he rolls away, leaving Jason cold and annoyed. He turns his head and sees Roy wrench open the drawer in his nightstand, pulling out condoms and lube. Jason’s eyes widen. He sits up, swallows, and Roy crawls back to him, still grinning, still all heat.

“Top or bottom?” he asks, easily, as if it’s no big deal. Which, of course, it _isn’t_ , but… Jason blows out a breath. As much as Jason would like to be cocky, blow Roy away (or just, like… blow him) with his sexual prowess, he should probably…

“I’ve never, uh… Never. Done this.”

Roy blinks. “Oh.”

There is a pause that’s so pregnant it’s close to labour.

“Never mind,” Jason mutters, swinging his legs off the bed, making to get up. This was a stupid idea, a _stupid, dumb_ , fucking _imbecilic_ idea, and he should never have even fucking _tried_ to do this… Roy stops him. The grin is back.

“It’s not a problem, Jaybird,” he says. He leans forward, hesitates, lets Jason close the distance.

 _Jaybird_. That’s the dumbest nickname since “Little Wing”. He tries to ignore how it makes his stomach do flips, and concentrates on Roy’s touch, how it guides him back down to the bed, how those hands dive beneath his waistband and squeeze his ass. He groans into the kiss, getting his hands between them, on Roy’s chest, his blood pumping when Roy hooks a leg over his own and drags him closer, the press of their clothed cocks making him dizzy.

He notices, vaguely, as if from far away as he rolls Roy over, straddles him, wrenches down the other man’s own sweatpants, that Roy is definitely letting him lead. He’s letting Jason take control, call the shots, and Jason… likes it. He likes how Roy shudders and groans when Jason takes his cock in hand, how he arches into his touch, how he licks and bites his lips as pleasure paints a grin all over him. He wonders, still from a pleasant distance as Roy frees his own cock, making an appreciative noise, whether Roy always smiles this much during sex. He doesn’t care. These smiles are _his_ now, just like the keening sound that he lets out when Roy wraps bow-callused fingers around his own cock is entirely Roy’s.

And then it’s just a mess. It’s a mess of movement and groans and all Jason can do is bury his face in Roy’s neck, breathe in the scent of him, lick the sweat off his skin as Roy’s hand moves in time with his own. He’s lost to it, head spinning with it, whole body aflame with it. He’s never had another hand on his cock, not like this, and the fact that it’s _Roy’s_ …

“Fuck, _Roy_ -!”

It’s over too soon. He comes, shuddering through it, his hand tightening around Roy, but he doesn’t stop. He wants Roy to come, _needs_ Roy to come, and Roy does, and it’s as fucking beautiful as he imagined.

“Jay-!”

Roy’s eyes slip shut, his head goes back, his groan hitches, trembles, and there’s heat all over Jason’s hand.

Jason lets himself collapse, half-certain his brain is literally melting out of his ears.

“Christ, you’re heavy,” Roy wheezes, and Jason huffs, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

“Sorry I’m buffer than you are,” he says, completely unapologetic, but he does find the strength to roll off Roy, who takes in a melodramatic breath. Jason lightly whacks him with a lazy hand. It’s sticky, Jason realises, and it takes him a moment to remember that, oh, that’s _Roy’s come_. Oh. _Wow_.

“Jesus,” he breathes. He just came. With another man’s hand on his dick (he winces internally – it’s really impossible to use that word when you know someone with that name). And not just any man – _Roy_. How many times had he woken up, sticky and ashamed, his mind still full of exactly this?

Roy props himself up on his elbows, looks down at him, and the grin is lazy now, satisfied.

“You know… I’m gonna want that pretty cock of yours in my mouth, when you’re up to it again,” he says.

Jason drags him over, into a bruising kiss. He never imagined it would be like this.

* * *

Jason wakes up with light streaming across his face, a throbbing in his side, and the weight of something across his back. It’s skin on skin, and when he shifts, ever-so-slightly, there’s a soft noise of protest beside him. Jason’s heart starts to thud.

He slept in _Roy’s bed_. He slept in Roy’s bed with _Roy_ in it.

His eyes slide shut, and he keeps perfectly still, not daring to move a muscle in case this is some spell he could break. It’s not just that, is it? It’s what they _did_ , the night before, like it’s some fucking _dream_ …

“Daddy, it’s time for- oh.”

_Shit._

Jason bolts up and lets out a sharp cry. This fucking _wound_ is gonna drive him nuts. He has to flop back down, teeth gritted, still too groggy from sleep to be able to ignore the pain.

“Lian, baby, what is it?”

“Why is Jay in your bed?” she asks, so fucking innocent it almost hurts. Roy clears his throat.

“He… had a nightmare,” he says.

“Like the other night?”

“Yep, just like that. Why don’t you head to the kitchen, Daddy’ll be there in a sec.”

Thankfully, Jason hears the sound of Lian’s feet padding down the hallway, and Roy lets out a sigh of relief. He heads into Jason’s field of vision, hair an absolute fucking mess, chin peppered with stubble and Jason wants to kiss him. So badly.

“You ok?” Roy asks. Jason nods. Roy smiles, a lazy, languid smile. “Good.”

He pats Jason on the shoulder and slides away, out of the bed, starts rummaging around for boxers and pants.

Jason isn’t sure whether to feel insulted or not. He’s not exactly an expert in morning-afters. He’s never _had_ one before. But he’s certain he isn’t mistaken in noticing Roy’s distance, a complete one-eighty from the night before. He lets himself dwell on it, rediscovering the touches, the heat, the mind-spinning intimacy of it all… His jaw clenches. No, Roy isn’t getting away _this_ easy.

He sits up, runs a hand through his hair. “Hey,” he says. Roy, now tugging on sweatpants, looks at him.

“Yeah?”

“Are we gonna, like… discuss this at some point?” Jason asks. Roy straightens up, rubs at the back of his neck.

“What’s to discuss?” he replies, and Jason turns cold, ice crawling up his spine. Roy, unfortunately, doesn’t care to answer – and after all, Lian is more important, and Jason’s fine with that. He disappears, likely to the kitchen to make her breakfast, and Jason is left alone with the aftermath. What Jason _isn’t_ fine with is how easily Roy can’t just ignore everything.

He draws his knees up to his chest, gritting his teeth against the pull of his wound.

He’s not sure whether he’s disappointed or bitter. Both? He has no idea.

* * *

Roy isn’t distant so much as… acting like nothing ever happened, Jason realises. He moves on easily, gliding away from something that Jason can’t help but dwell on. Jason cannot comprehend how he can do it, how he can’t know how Jason’s heart clenches every time Roy looks at him, offers him a smile, asks him a question.

Jason wasn’t sure he was capable of feeling something beyond anger and resentment. Now he is, and he isn’t sure he wants to be.

That night, Roy heads over with the first aid kit. Jason doesn’t look at him.

“I can do it myself,” he mutters. Roy rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, but it’s easier if I do it,” he says. “C’mon, shirt off.”

Jason’s eyes snap to his face, narrow, sharp. “Like last night?” he bites, unable to stop himself. He wants his words to be fangs and sink into Roy’s flesh. He wants to prove Roy can at least feel _something_.

Roy halts, on his knees, box halfway open. “Excuse me?”

Jason looks away, lip curling. “You know what I mean.”

The box snaps shut, and Roy rocks back on his knees, folding his arms. “What? You seemed fine with it last night.”

Jason scrapes a hand through his hair, rough, tugging it, centring himself with the pain in his scalp. “You’re a fucking idiot, Harper,” he snaps. “You just… that was…” He can’t find the words.

Roy is silent for a long moment, and then he sighs. “You’re right. That… it was your first time, so I should have been better about it.” He places a hand on Jason’s knee, squeezes slightly, and Jason has to fight to not flinch. “I’m sorry. I got… carried away.” His smile is lopsided, tentative, trying to appeal to a part Jason isn’t certain he has. “It was good.”

Jason shakes his head. “That’s not…” What _does_ he want? A good question, a fucking awful question, a highly loaded question that he doesn’t have an answer to. He does know he doesn’t want a bunch of empty platitudes about how good it was. He wants… something else. Something more, but he doesn’t know what _more_ is. He’s never done this before, and, and…

And he _shouldn’t_ want this.

It comes to him like a sudden epiphany, and he calls himself stupid that he hadn’t thought of it immediately. He isn’t allowed this. He’s not _allowed_ Roy, he’s not allowed to _love_. That is not a luxury the universe will grace him with, not when he’s this broken-winged facsimile of a human that’s only good for killing.

He shakes his head again, but the weight of it is different. “Nothing.” He tugs his shirt up wordlessly, ignoring Roy’s frown.

He remains silent throughout the changing of his dressing, and he makes sure to sleep with his face pressed to the couch, so any screams he might have when the nightmares come are muffled.

* * *

The next few days are… strained. Jason’s preferred method of distance is scathing retorts, building a barrier of clipped, cutting remarks between him and Roy. He responds in monosyllables when he can, not meeting Roy’s gaze, digging down and remembering who he is. Remembering there is no place in this world for Jason Todd. He is the Red Hood; he takes revenge; he does what Batman can’t. He focuses on that, on the old resentment he’d almost forgotten, uses it as a focus, a catalyst. The Red Hood can keep Roy at arm’s length where Jason never could.

And that would be fine, if there was only Roy to worry about. But there’s someone else, someone smaller and more innocent who doesn’t understand the sudden shift in temperature. That someone else just wants to show Jason her new Hairdorable doll and get annoyed when there’s no Grandpa Ollie in her superhero colouring book. Lian doesn’t _understand_. There’s no metre for her to measure distance by… things are simpler for her. 

God, Jason envies her so much.

She tugs on Jason’s t-shirt. “Draw with me?” she asks. Jason looks up, and the table is already laden with crayons and washable markers and a drawing pad. And while he can say no to Roy, he can’t say no to _Lian_.

“Sure,” he mumbles, getting up and heading over to the kitchen table. “What are we drawing?”

Lian looks thoughtful for a moment. “Nice things. Things we like.”

Jason winces. What he _actually_ likes would definitely give the game away. Also, he hasn’t drawn in a good few years, and that’s not just because he was dead. Art was never his forte, and he’s had things on his mind that don’t exactly allow time for breaking out the watercolours. He should make something up.

Lian, fortunately, is a good distraction. She gives him a blow-by-blow account of her creative process, illustrating how the winged unicorn is a princess, and how it’s also an archer because archers are cool. Then she draws Black Canary, and she calls her Aunt Dinah because Aunt Dinah won’t let her call her “Grandma Dinah” even though she’s married to Grandpa Ollie.

Then she turns, and squints at him. It’s unnerving, but also extremely funny, because she looks so comically serious.

“Can I help you?”

“Stay still,” she says. She’s on her third piece of paper while Jason hasn’t even started on his first, and he doesn’t think he’s ever going to, so he watches her.

She is methodical, and as precise as a five-year-old can be. She screws up her nose when she’s concentrating, her forehead creased with a tiny frown.

It takes him a moment to realise she’s drawing _him_.

When it finally hits him, it’s… well, not a metaphor he particularly likes. He swallows, covers his mouth with his hand, and tries to figure out why the fuck Lian has decided to commit his likeness to paper. A distraction comes in the form of Roy, reappearing with a carton of milk and some bread. Lian’s head snaps up, and she beams.

“Daddy, look!”

Roy looks at Jason for a minute, and Jason pointedly avoids his gaze, relieved when those green eyes go to Lian.

“What, sweetheart?” he asks. Lian holds up her new drawing with an air of intense pride.

“It’s Jason!” she says, and Jason can feel his face burning. Roy doesn’t quite stifle his chuckle in time, and takes the drawing from Lian.

“Wow, it’s a perfect likeness!” he says.

“We were drawing things we like!” she continues blithely. “I drew Aunt Dinah too. Jay hasn’t drawn anything yet.” The accusation and disapproval in her tone is palpable and it makes even Jason crack a grin. Roy, however, is quiet, and it makes Jason, against his better judgement, look at him. Their eyes meet, and Jason feels electricity up his spine, dancing through his veins. Roy’s expression is unfathomable, but he walks to the fridge with steady purpose.

“Then it’s gotta go here,” he announces, putting it in pride of place with a magnet. Lian’s smile grows even wider and brighter. Jason’s cheeks are on fire.

Roy takes a step back, hands on his hips, to admire his handiwork. “Yep, it’s staying there!”

As Lian claps her hands in delight, Jason sinks lower in his chair, attempting to hide his face. But… perhaps he’s also smiling a little. More than he should be, he thinks. Roy looks back at him, now grinning broadly, and he _must_ know what that’s doing to Jason. He must have _some_ inkling of how that smile on that face makes his heart pound in a way that feels incredibly alien, yet weirdly natural.

* * *

It’s Roy that brings the first aid kid that evening. He’s kept himself to himself, taking the hint, but apparently sticking a five-year-old’s portrait of someone on the fridge constitutes an invitation to just kick down carefully erected walls. And Jason, fool that he is… lets him. He lets Roy just kneel in front of him and cut away old bandages and replace them.

“It’s healing nicely,” he remarks, looking pleased.

“Finally stopped pulling my stitches every five seconds,” Jason mutters.

“Well, it’s gonna leave a scar,” Roy adds dryly, “but I don’t think you’re going to cry over that.”

Jason snorts, and Roy closes the first aid box with a snap.

“Listen, I… I realise I fucked up. Badly.” He sits back on his heels, rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for that. But… you just shut down. You ignored me for three days, Jason. It’s really hard to live with that.”

Jason leans back, sighs. “Yeah.” That’s the most he will admit. He doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t want to acknowledge the fucking tangled mess of feelings that are writhing and coiling around themselves inside him. He doesn’t know where one emotion ends and another begins and if he tries to open his mouth and talk about them he’ll fucking _explode_. He bites his lip.

He could take something. For himself. At arms’ length, but also within them, if he plays his cards right.

He swallows, reaches forward. “Took me a minute to realise what I wanted,” he murmurs. His hand meets the side of Roy’s neck, rubs circles with his thumb. Roy raises his eyebrows.

“So you want… this?” he asks, his voice thick with promise. Jason’s stomach flips like a pancake. He knows this is a bad idea. A fucking _awful_ idea. But he’s always been used to taking what he can get, when he can get it.

Roy is no different.

“Yeah. This.” He’s perilously close to Roy, close enough to feel his heat, feel his breath on his lips.

“No strings,” Roy says.

“No strings,” Jason confirms, and God, Roy’s mouth tastes good on his.

 _No strings_ , Jason thinks. And while Roy is happy to have none attached, Jason feels like he desperately needs them to hold him up.

* * *

He’s back in Roy’s bed, now. Back in Roy’s bed, pressed against the mattress, hand firmly planted over his mouth to keep his moans inside because otherwise he’d be too loud and there’s a freaking kid in the house, after all. Roy’s mouth is on his cock, sucking enthusiastically, the sounds of his movements wet and obscene. Jason’s _never_ felt this before, never had his dick in someone’s mouth, and he just… he just _wants_ …

He comes with a stifled shout, barely a few minutes after this whole thing started. His face burns, but Roy pulls off, chuckles, and wipes his mouth. When Jason meets his eyes, his gaze burns, and Jason’s heart pounds, not just from orgasm. His _dick_ was in Roy’s _mouth_. He came from _that_. It makes his head spin.

He surges up, pulls Roy up, into a kiss, tastes himself on the other man’s tongue. Somehow, he manoeuvres Roy down to the bed, raises himself up to look down. Roy seems pleasantly intrigued.

“Lemme try,” Jason rumbles, and he sees Roy shudder, lick his lips.

“All yours, Jaybird,” he says, and Jason hides himself in the skin of Roy’s throat, because he doesn’t like how his insides twist and coil at the sound of that new nickname. He descends, mouth on flesh, unable to take it slow, until he reaches the trail that leads from navel to cock. Roy is hard, expectant, and Jason really doesn’t want to disappoint. He also never realised his mouth could water when thinking about a mouthful of dick.

He circles the base with his fingers, licks experimentally, and that has Roy hissing. Jason follows the length of it with his tongue, swirls around the tip and tastes bitterness, before enclosing it with his lips.

A shiver of delight runs up his spine. _Roy’s cock is in his mouth._ Oh, if his horny teenage fantasies could see him _now_.

He knows better than to assume he can fight his gag reflex yet, so he goes down, as much as he can, and hollows his cheeks. Roy’s gasp turns into a groan halfway, and his fingers weave into Jason’s hair, his thighs twitching. Jason can’t exactly grin around his mouthful, but he would if he could. _He’s_ doing this, _he_ is the one getting this reaction from Roy. God, it’s almost enough to get him hard again.

He rises, careful to keep his teeth in check, and then lowers himself again, and Roy rises up to meet him with a muttered “fuck yes”. Jason is a fast learner, always has been, and finds his rhythm quickly, easily, head rising and falling, lips tight around Roy’s cock. He savours the taste, weird as it is, savours the heat and the weight of it, lets it rest against his tongue, feels its shape and contours and details, commits them to memory. He ignores the ache in his jaw, easily forgotten because of the noises Roy is making: groans, deep, low, long, and his words… the encouragement, the litany of _“yes, God, please, fuck, Jay, yes, so good, you’re doing so good, baby”_ igniting a frequency in Jason’s blood that keeps him going. He needs to hear it, needs the praise, and if he’s hard again, and humping the mattress for desperately needed friction, well, that’s between him and the laundry.

Roy’s fingers are strong, and they tighten. Roy’s back arches, his groan breaks halfway, and it’s all the warning Jason gets before he chokes on a mouthful of hot semen, pulling back quickly, spluttering.

“Fuck, shit, Jay… sorry…”

Roy is there immediately, sitting up, somehow managing to sound concerned even while panting from orgasm. Jason quickly swallows, wiping his chin, and looks up.

He freezes. Roy’s hair is a mess, his face is flushed pink and it spreads down his neck. His lips, wet, are parted, and Jason aches. He aches so much he could cry. He’s known pain, so many kinds of pain, but this is a different variety, and it hurts in a way he can’t yet comprehend.

He takes a deep breath that shudders down into his lungs, and pulls Roy to him, into him, presses their mouths together. He’s known loss, as well, and he knows it’s prowling ever-closer, and this will only end badly, but for now… for now, he’ll take what he can.

He’s already two steps ahead.

* * *

Waking up in Roy’s bed is terrible for Jason’s sanity. He doesn’t have much of it already, and if he opens his eyes and sees messy red hair falling over a slumbering face, he can feel what’s left slipping away. His hands yearn to reach out, but he keeps them to himself.

It’s better this way. No strings attached, after all.

He rolls over, away from the temptation, and winces. He presses a hand to his side. The pain is still bad, but the wound seems to be healing all right – he’s not entirely sure whether it’s natural or not, but healing is healing. In their line of work, the body mending itself fast is a blessing.

Which means, of course, that his time in the Happy Harper Household is coming to a close.

He clutches the sheets, stares at the ceiling. He should be grateful: the sooner he’s out of here, the sooner he can work on suppressing these stupid feelings, go back to doing what he’s _supposed_ to be doing, the only thing he’s good at. He’s not meant to be here. He knows it, and he’s not going to outstay his welcome, both for his sake and Roy and Lian’s.

A tiny voice within him, quiet, barely acknowledged, pipes up with the smallest of _buts_.

He is torn in two right now. There are two parts of him: the small, broken part, curled up in the corner all alone, and the angry, resentful part that likes to lash out, to self-sabotage, that’s got a hateboner for the world and dearly wants to see it fucked. Both of these parts are desperate to come out on top, and Jason isn’t truly sure which he wants to see win.

For a long time, since he dug his way out of his own fucking grave with bloodied nails and a belt buckle, the second part was the most powerful. It hurt, he hurt, and he wanted to see everyone else hurt too. He wanted nothing more than to cause hurt, in the hope that he would stop hurting in turn.

The other part had lain dormant, and for a while he’d thought it gone. But now… now it seems to be gaining strength. Jason isn’t entirely sure what to think of this. He’d taken a path, even though it pitted him against everything he’d once called home, and he was going to just stumble down it until he eventually died, probably violently. That was his lot in this unnatural second life he’d been supplied with.

And now…

He’s startled from his reverie by a touch on his arm. He whips his head around, but it’s simply Roy’s knuckles brushing his bicep.

“Sorry for startling you,” he mumbles, his voice a gravelly mess from sleep, and Jason swallows. “You seemed really out of it.”

“Just… thinking,” Jason mutters. He loosens his white-knuckle grip on the bedclothes, but his muscles will not relax. They’re taut with anxiety, with the knowledge that this moment, this intimacy, this warmth, are not what he is meant to have. They go against nature. He is undeserving.

“Don’t think too hard, you might hurt yourself,” Roy jokes. Then he props himself up on his elbows, leans over, presses a kiss to Jason’s closed lips. Jason can feel stubble, smell morning breath, taste last night, and the night before, and the night before, and as Roy slips from the bed and out to the bathroom, he thinks that dying again might be the lesser evil.

* * *

“There are no good schools around here.”

Jason lifts his head from Hamlet (it’s nothing he hasn’t read before, but Roy was nice enough to bring it home the day before _just for him_ , and it offers him a good way to not stare at the way the sun is hitting Roy’s skin, catching his freckles, turning his hair brilliant copper).

“None?” Jason asks. Roy pushes away his laptop with a huff.

“None.” He’s pouting. Jason tries very hard not to look at that pout. “Not to be a snob, or anything, but I really want Lian to go somewhere with a decent curriculum and a good atmosphere in a safe environment.”

“I think that’s normal,” Jason says. Unbidden, memories of Bruce brute-forcing him into Gotham Academy resurface, how adamant he was that Jason was going to get the best education money could buy… He quashes them, trying not to let the bitterness show on his face. “You’re a good dad, Roy.”

Roy’s grin is broad, happy, all for him, and like a knife straight into his heart.

* * *

Jason’s internal clock is impeccable, so he knows it’s around 2 AM when there’s a crash and a piercing scream.

The two of them are both out of the bed, Lian’s name on Roy’s lips. Roy grabs a hand crossbow, wrenches open the door, Jason right behind him, unarmed but ready.

“Stop squirming, you little bitch!” snarls a man’s voice, deep, gravelly, unpleasant as ground glass. He’s already halfway out the window, Lian kicking like a swimmer, and the bottom plummets out of Jason’s stomach. He recognises this man.

The man, missing half a nose and with small, piggy eyes like brown pinpricks, sees them and grins. And is gone. Roy is at the window within a split-second, aims, and pulls the trigger. There’s a shout from outside, and the sound of a car door slamming shut and a screech of tires as they pull away.

“Fuck!” Roy yells. He crosses the room in two long strides, and Jason sees fire in his eyes, the sort of rage Jason has only ever seen on… on…

“Who the fuck was that?!” Roy is wrenching on his Arsenal uniform, suiting up with the speed and efficiency that is second nature to a vigilante.

“His name is… Blitz.”

Roy pauses. He turns, looks at Jason, eyes narrowed, mouth twisted.

“You know him.” Not a question.

Jason is already pulling on his own clothing, still filthy from when he tumbled through Roy’s window, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters right now is finding Lian.

“Yes,” he says. He finds his guns, holsters them, finds his helmet. “He’s the one who stabbed me.”

Jason’s mind is running a mile a minute. Blitz is good, _almost_ as good as him, a rare thing for the kind of criminals Jason usually deals with. Good enough to strike out on his own, make his own little empire, and play a back-and-forth game of cat and mouse with the Red Hood for two weeks.

And now he has Lian.

He has _Lian_ and he’s evil enough to hurt her just to draw the Hood out of hiding and finish –

Jason lets out a grunt when his back collides with the wall, Roy’s forearm across his throat. Those green eyes are full of a righteous fury that makes Jason wither and feel like the small child that used to cower under the kitchen table.

“You led him here,” Roy spits, his face twisted in utter loathing. “You fucking piece of human garbage, YOU FUCKING LED HIM HERE!”

Jason swallows. “Roy, I’m so sorry…”

“HE HAS MY DAUGHTER!” Roy roars.

“We have to find her,” Jason reminds him, his throat aching from the weight of Roy’s strength. Roy, thankfully, lets him go, and Jason stumbles as his feet take his weight again.

“We’re going to find her,” he says, slowly and with deliberate calm. “And you’re going to _fix this_.”

Jason nods quickly, like a child who’s been offered a second chance. He shoves his helmet on, sticks his knife in his belt as Roy shoulders his bow, and they’re both out of the window and onto the street.

Once they’re at street level, Roy pulls out his phone and brings up an app. A red dot appears, speeding through the city streets, away from them. It then stills.

“Fuck!” Roy clenches his fist around his phone. He whips around to Jason. “Where is he?”

Jason takes a deep breath. “I followed him from Gotham to here, to the Warehouses. He’s probably still there.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Jason doesn’t have the courage to look Roy in the eye. “He… he’s luring me.”

Roy’s face twists. “I swear to God if _anything_ happens to Lian because of you –” He strides over to the ramp that leads to the underground garages. With a beep, one shutter opens, revealing a shiny red motorcycle that Jason would have found impressive and perhaps a little hot if his stomach hadn’t been writhing in sheer dread. He’s honestly terrified for Lian. The thought of something happening to her is a living nightmare.

Roy wheels out the bike and swings his leg over. “Get on!” he barks, and with a kick and a rev, they’re out onto the streets, weaving between late-night traffic, towards the warehouse district. Jason doesn’t dare hold tighter than absolutely necessary. He can feel the tension in Roy’s body, the fear turning him rigid, and Jason hates himself for putting it there.

He should have known this would happen, he thinks bitterly. He should have known he’d bring the danger with him. He let his guard down, in so many different ways, and now he is paying the price. He shakes his head, and focuses his mind on Lian. She comes first right now, and his pathetic self-pity party can happen later, once she’s safe and home.

* * *

The Warehouses are mostly just a grimy collection of rotten old concrete behemoths sitting around a large, open, grass-riddled parking lot, not too far from the train tracks. Roy pulls behind the one closest to the chain-link fence, kills the engine, and the two of them dismount. Roy readies his bow, his back and hip quivers full.

“Which one?” he demands. Jason shakes his head.

“Roy…”

Roy’s glare could cut diamonds. Jason refuses to allow himself to quail under it. He’s faced worse than Roy fucking Harper. He’s faced the worst Gotham City can puke up, he’s faced the _Batman_ , hell, he’s even faced fucking _death_. Roy Harper isn’t going to make him cower like a little bitch.

“Stay the fuck back, Harper,” he snaps. Roy immediately rounds on him, jaw set and eyes blazing.

“What the _fuck_ does that mean, Todd?!” he snarls. “I’m going in there, and I’m saving my –”

“You’re staying back!” Jason retorts, getting right into Roy’s face. It’s easier with the helmet on, seeing him through screened eye sockets, the red carbon fibre creating a perfect barrier between them. “What will Lian do if you get _killed_ by some fucking street thugs, huh?!”

Roy goes very still and stays quiet. Jason takes that as acquiescence.

“We’re gonna do things sneakily,” he says. “They’ll be expecting us through the skylights, so we’ll take the back windows. I’ll go first. Watch my back.”

Once they’re behind Warehouse 7, Roy fires two grappling arrows into the side of the building, below the overhang of the roof. There’s a windowpane already cracked, and Jason winces as he realises he’ll have to likely break it and draw attention to them, but Roy has a trick arrow for that too. The putty arrow covers the glass, and Roy breaks it silently, pulling it away to toss onto the ground below. Jason had honestly forgotten just how resourceful Queen’s bunch could be, _especially_ Roy.

Jason pulls himself inside, onto a concrete floor. It’s dark, and his helmet eye sockets immediately switch to night vision. The room is small and crammed with boxes, with only one door in and out. Roy slides in behind him, and, almost as one, they hug the boxes lining the walls, reaching the door from the sides, checking it for trip wires or signals. When it turns up clean, yet another little gadget comes into play, but this time it’s Jason’s: he pulls the minute camera snake from his belt and feeds it beneath the door, his right eye socket filling with the camera feed. The walkway outside is empty, and Jason nods. 

Once the door is silently unlocked, he slips outside, keeping to the shadows. Down below is the main bulk of the warehouse, a large open space hosting a forest of metal shelving and boxes, lit from above by old, slightly flickery industrial lighting suspended from the ceiling. Among this shelving are seven men, all armed with AR-15s, smoking and talking amongst themselves and generally not taking their job very seriously. He’s never been fond of taking on more than four on his own, even though he can and, well… this time he _does_ have back up.

He glances back to the door, and notices Roy has crept out as well, but also keeps himself as hidden as possible. Jason points to the left, to the deeper shadows behind a large stack of crates, and Roy nods. Even through his fury, he knows to stick to a plan, and Jason thinks he shouldn’t be surprised: Roy, he knows, has always been good at this.

“I’ll go down,” Jason murmurs once they reach their second hiding place, “take out the three furthest away and I’ll deal with the other four.”

Roy nods again, sliding an arrow from his quiver and nocking it in readiness, but their plan is halted for a moment. Blitz comes striding in, all unpleasant arrogant swagger, and Jason’s jaw clenches hard enough to ache. Beside him, he feels Roy stiffen.

“Keep an eye out,” Blitz barks. “I’m gonna go talk to our little guest.”

Blitz’s cronies jeer a bit, and Jason can feel Roy practically thrumming with rage.

“Motherfucker,” he breathes, but he remains still, even though Jason knows it must be taking all the willpower Roy possesses.

Blitz disappears through another door, and he knows now that Lian is through there. They have a target, a better understanding, and it’s time to get her back.

Jason vaults the railing, landing softly on a box on an upper shelf. Crouching, he slinks along the shelving, right above a lanky, ratty-looking man who is flicking a cigarette. Guns out and ready, he leaps.

His boots collide with his target’s head, and the rat man drops like a sandbag. Before the others can react properly, two are hit by arrows. Jason lands, guns aimed, but, for a split second that seems to last a lifetime, he hesitates.

Shoot to maim, or shoot to kill?

He thinks of Roy, Roy who doesn’t kill because of that stupid code all the do-gooders desperately cling to, because of his _morals_ , and because of his daughter. Roy, who would be sorely pissed if Jason killed this filth, and would hate him even more than he already does. But that’s not the Red Hood’s way. The Red Hood takes out the trash, he does what Batman won’t, he cleans up the streets.

He aims slightly higher, and shoots.

The man jerks and crumples, taking at least three bullets to the chest, from Jason’s left gun. The second gets another four from the right, goes down hard. Blood begins to dribble from them as soon as they hit the concrete.

The shots echo louder than Roy’s bowstring, and a door crashes open from the opposite direction to the target. Three more men pour out, opening fire. Jason has no choice.

He hauls up the thicker of the two downed men and holds him up as a shield as he dodges, weaving towards the door, kicking it open and throwing the probable corpse behind him as he dives in.

The room looks like a large office, most of the furniture shoved up against the walls, but Jason doesn’t have more than a second to notice before his gaze goes to the middle of the room.

“Hey there, Hoodie,” Blitz grins. He’s holding Lian in his beefy grasp, a gun held to her head. “One more step and Baby’s brains go everywhere.”

Jason feels violently sick. Lian’s eyes are huge with terror, her Frozen pyjamas a horrific pastel contrast to the blackness of the situation. Tears stream down her round cheeks, and she stares at Jason. His chest aches when she lets out a broken sob. He wants to reach out, tell her everything will be fine and that he’s there, she doesn’t need to worry. But he can’t. He can’t show weakness right now, or it might be the end. He only has one chance to get this right.

“You can go ahead,” Jason says smoothly, bringing forth a cool façade he most definitely doesn’t feel. “It’s not like I won’t kill you for killing her, shit-for-brains. You forgetting I’m holding guns too?”

Blitz’s lip rises. “You really don’t care ‘bout this little bitch?” he demands. Jason notices it, the minute slip, the loosening of Blitz’s trigger finger. Then –

“FUCK!” Blitz roars, and his grip on Lian slips, fresh teeth marks on his arm. She falls to the floor and before the fucker can react, Jason raises his gun.

The bullet goes right into Blitz’s forehead. He folds in on himself as he hits the floor, like a deflating bouncy castle. Lian goes very still and stares, transfixed.

Jason rushes forward, kneels beside Lian, reaching out for her. She whirls around and flinches away, letting out a cry of fear. Without a second thought, he drops his guns and wrenches off his helmet.

“It’s ok, Lian, it’s ok. It’s me, it’s Jason.”

“Jay?” she asks, her voice tiny. He nods, and she flings herself into his arms, bursting into full-blown sobs against the leather on his shoulder.

The door behind them opens, and for a moment Jason’s blood runs cold. He’s unarmed, he has an armful of child, _fuck_ , _shit_ –

“Lian!”

“Daddy!”

Lian struggles and Jason lets her go, and she immediately launches herself into Roy’s waiting embrace. Jason watches as he holds her close, whispering things Jason can’t hear, and he can see tears of relief on Roy’s face as he cradles his daughter as tightly as he can.

Jason stands, holstering his guns and replacing his helmet. There’s no way the cops won’t be here soon, and it wouldn’t be good for any of them to be found in a warehouse full of freshly dead bodies. He moves past them, not allowing himself to relax yet.

“We need to leave.”

Roy straightens up, holding Lian close, tight, and yet with a delicacy that betrays the fear he felt. Jason doesn’t look at him as he leaves the room, but he can feel Roy’s eyes on his back, burning through leather and flesh to his very heart. He does his best to ignore how it rises to his throat.

“Hide your eyes, Lian,” Roy says, voice catching as his footsteps echo Jason’s. They make their way back to Roy’s bike, sirens getting closer, and neither man says anything to each other.

* * *

Back at Roy’s apartment, Lian starts whimpering as they get closer to her bedroom door, still wide open. A breeze is blowing through the shattered window, and Jason once again feels a tidal wave of guilt, hot-and-cold up his oesophagus.

“It’s ok, sweetheart, we’re not going in there,” Roy murmurs soothingly, carrying her to his bedroom. There begins the slow, meticulous ritual of cleaning her and himself up, tucking her in, staying close to her. Jason watches. Bitterly he thinks about how he deluded himself this past week: how he managed to conjure up some pipe-dream of a happy family, something he could be a part of, something that was so sweet and tempting and altogether completely out of his reach. He’d spent years developing a skin tough enough to keep everything and everyone out. He’d told himself that the soul he’d come back with wasn’t that same stupid fifteen-year-old that had gotten himself killed for a mother that didn’t love him. Well, _bullshit_.

He _should_ have known _better_. He didn’t, but he should have.

He watches from the doorway, helmet still on, a respectful distance that’s only a couple of metres but feels like a thousand miles. Lian finally falls asleep, and only then does Roy look up. His gaze hardens, and Jason has to resist physically flinching away from it.

Roy rises from the bed, stiff, clearly still furious. Jason steps out of the way, meek, and follows him obediently to the den.

“You killed them,” Roy says. His voice is like granite, and Jason feels like he committed genocide instead of just shooting some criminals. “You led that bastard right to us, to _Lian_ , and then you had the fucking gall to murder them. Jesus fucking Christ, Jason.”

Jason closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, his jaw tightening. He raises his head, and shoves down the apology. He doesn’t need to _apologise_. He’s the Red Hood. This is what he _does_.

“I’m sorry about Lian,” he says. Ok, so there _is_ something he needs to apologise for. Letting something happen to Lian is something he’ll never forgive himself for. “I truly am. But… I’m not sorry for killing anyone tonight. It’s what I do. It’s how I sort shit out. I do what the rest of you self-righteous assholes can’t, because they don’t want to get their precious hands dirty: I get the shit sorted out _permanently_. That’s just how it fucking is, Roy.”

He folds his arms, a physical barrier between them. This is it, the end of the road, Jason can taste it in the air. There’s nothing to hold on to, no choice but to let go.

Roy glares at him. “You think you’re so much fucking better, shooting all your problems between the eyes. God, you’re like a fucking child, you don’t want to deal with the goddamn consequences, you just gun them down and step over the fucking corpses!”

Jason snorts to hide how close to home that hits. “What the fuck ever, Harper. Fuck you. Thanks for the stitches, that’s all you were fucking good for.”

He doesn’t slam the front door behind him, still remembering Lian is asleep – and probably deeply traumatised. He’ll never stop feeling guilty over that, but Roy can go fuck himself. A man who’s made that many mistakes is in no place to preach. As Jason leaves, the apartment building, the street, the city, he makes a point of refusing to look back.

* * *

Gotham welcomes him back with open, needle-poked arms. It’s easy to fall back into old habits, to walk old haunts. Park Row is familiar territory, like coming back to a warm bed, almost like she missed having his bullet holes in her. And being here, in this mind-numbing echo chamber of crime and violence means he doesn’t have to think about Roy. He doesn’t have to think about heat and hunger, or recrimination. He doesn’t have to think about Lian, about how big brown eyes made his days brighter, and how he still feels the guilt heavy on his shoulders. The old beat is easy to dance to again, and if… well, if he’s shooting to maim, not to kill, that’s no one’s fucking business but his own.

He's crouching on the ledge of a windowsill, completely hidden in shadows, watching the meeting go on down below. He can hear everything they’re saying, but it doesn’t really matter. When the Red Hood’s away, the rats will play, and they wasted no time in moving in on the small window of power vacuum that he left in his absence. These fucking wannabes have been targeting schools, and that is, of course, one of the Hood’s golden rules: sell your shit to whoever you want, but no one under eighteen. Now the rule is broken, and the only thing that matters is the pain he’s gonna inflict on the fuckers.

He leaps, lands heavy on the table at the centre of the room, guns aimed. They shriek in terror.

“Miss me, boys?” he growls, and fires.

He gets one in the shoulder, making him drop his gun, but before he can fire again, something whizzes past, planting itself in a leg with a dull thud. The target screams in agony and drops, clutching his thigh, and Jason sees what did it to him: a long, thin red shaft, tipped with crimson fletching. Jason turns, looks up, sees the glint of an arrowhead.

His breath hitches for a split second before he goes back to work, and soon they’re all dispatched, bleeding on the floor and tied to each other. Jason leaves the police signaller just out of their reach and turns back to where the arrow was shot from. There’s a flicker of red sneaking out a window, and Jason knows where to go.

The wind on the rooftop is bitter tonight, biting even through the thick layers of Jason’s body armour and leathers. He wonders vaguely how the other man can deal with having his arms exposed like that, before his mere presence snatches all of Jason’s thoughts away.

This is the opposite of what Jason wanted. The opposite of what he needed. He’d thought he’d gotten over it but oh _God_ , the sight of Roy in front of him just fucking _hurts_. Roy shoulders his bow, folds his arms. Jason stays still.

“Bat ain’t gonna be happy you’re here,” he grunts. Roy shrugs, careless.

“Not a meta. Plus, we’re both Leaguers, he can suck it.”

Jason admires that, at least. Telling Bruce to suck it doesn’t seem to be a skill many people have honed. He hadn’t pegged Roy for one of those, honestly.

“And you know why I’m here anyway,” Roy goes on. “Been keeping your hands clean lately, or so I’ve heard.”

Jason grits his teeth. He wonders which little birdie sang that song.

There is a long, terse moment of silence. Jason dislikes it, but he also doesn’t want to break it. He doesn’t want to be the first to give in. Roy, it seems, has no such qualms about some non-existent struggle for dominance between them, and takes a few steps forward, within arms’ length of Jason.

He raps gently on the helmet, at cheek height. “Take it off?” he asks.

Jason hesitates. Taking it off means exposure. It means vulnerability. It means one less layer of defence between his raw wounds and exactly what Roy does to them.

He reaches up and slips it off.

“Are we gonna build a campfire and sing Kumbaya too?” Jason sneers, but Roy simply chuckles.

“Nah, I just… wanted to see your face.”

God. _God_. He can’t just _say_ shit like that, so casually, so openly, so brazenly. He _has_ to know what it does to Jason, how it wraps his heartstrings around Roy’s fist and wrenches them out of his chest. Jason fights the urge to swallow, to look away, to look down, to roll over and show his belly. He just tucks his helmet in the crook of his arm and raises his chin in churlish defiance. Is it childish? Absolutely. Does it make him feel better? …He’s not entirely sure.

“So… are you actually going to tell me why you’re here, or are you going to keep acting like I can read your fucking mind?”

Roy is silent for a moment, but he doesn’t lower his gaze, or even shift it.

“I… I want to make this work, Jay,” he says. He steps even closer into Jason’s space, and Jason doesn’t have the willpower to not lean into it. “I want this. I want… I want us.”

Jason swallows, though it doesn’t do much for the lump in his throat. “Why?” he asks. “After what I did…”

Roy runs a hand down his face and seems suddenly… older. More tired. A man with burdens and responsibilities and way too much of a past to ever step entirely out of its shadow. Jason finds it both relatable and a reminder that Roy is older than he is, older than Dick by a year… normally, it would be a chasm, but neither of them is normal.

“I missed you. We… we _both_ missed you.” He looks at Jason, green eyes unwavering. “She keeps asking about you. And… and it could have been something anyone dragged with them. It could have been Dick, or Ollie or Dinah or Wally or… or _me_. _I_ could have put her in danger. It could have happened without you there.” He sighs. “I was terrified, Jason.”

Jason’s hand moves of its own accord, much to his utter horror. It brushes Roy’s forearm gently, and Jason reels with it, even though he’s the one doing the touching. Offering comfort is so horrendously alien to him…

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I… I’m still _so sorry_. I never meant for any of it to happen.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Roy replies. “You’re not a monster, Jason.” It’s his turn to raise his hand, place it on Jason’s bicep. Jason’s breath hitches, and he tilts his head up. He has to breathe hard, has to blink fast.

“The fact is,” Roy continues, “Lian will never be safe. She’s safer with me than she is with her mother, but she’s still the daughter of someone with enemies and a secret identity. I don’t think there’s another little girl in the world who’s simultaneously the safest and the most vulnerable.” He shakes his head. “It happened. That’s it.”

“How is she?” Jason asks, almost desperate.

“Resilient,” Roy says. “There are some nightmares, but… but they don’t seem to get to her that badly. Dinah is helping.”

Jason nods, and falls silent. The sense of relief that washes over him would make a lesser man’s knees buckle.

“So…”

Jason looks up. Roy scratches his chin.

“This… us.”

“Us,” Jason echoes. There’s an ‘us’. There’s a _possibility_. Jason’s head is spinning, and something inside him breaks completely. He wanted the remain stiff and distant, keep the barricade and barbed wire erected around him, to remain something unapproachable, something to be feared, but… _God_. All he can do right now is melt, melt into Roy’s arms, against his body, his lips searching and clumsy and almost childish. Roy meets him, sifts his fingers into the hair at the nape of Jason’s neck, anchors him and pulls him closer at the same time. Jason’s façade couldn’t stand it anymore, and though he’s too numb to feel much beyond relief, he’s certain that at some point he’ll fully realise what is happening. For now, though, all he can do is close his eyes and hold onto Roy’s shoulders.

It’s not very long, and it’s not very passionate. It’s chaste almost, reverential, something like a holy pardon. When they pull away, Jason feels like the raging sea that’s been inside of him since before he died is suddenly calm.

“I… I can’t leave Gotham,” he says. “I need to be here.”

Roy folds his arms, shrugs. “Lian starts school in August,” he says. “Maybe a fresh start could work.”

Jason blinks. “You’d… you’d move here?” he asks softly.

“Good a place as any,” Roy says. “Though, uh… maybe not Crime Alley, you know?”

Jason allows himself a wry chuckle. “Yeah, no. There are better neighbourhoods, for sure.” He runs a hand through his hair, lets out a huff of breath. This almost feels wrong. Nothing is supposed to go right for him, he’s a loser, a fuck-up, a failure. This feels too unreal, too insane.

Roy seems to notice it. He presses a hand to Jason’s face, guides Jason’s gaze to his own.

“You’re allowed this, Jaybird,” he murmurs, and wraps his arms around Jason, tight, secure, safe.

Jason doesn’t say anything in reply, but he lets Roy’s words sink in, into his bones. Perhaps he _is_ allowed this, but most importantly, he _wants_ it. And for once, he’s going to let himself have it.


End file.
